The Disgraced Marchioness

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘If I have to live out the rest of my life without you, will you give me this one night together?’

  ‘Nell…’ For a moment he turned his face away from her in an intensity of emotion. ‘How hard you make our parting.’ Then turned to hold her eyes with his own, held fast by the passion of dew-drenched violets. ‘Do you know what it is that you ask of me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. She would not back down from this one promise of shared glory. ‘I can be thoroughly selfish—and will be if you would divide us asunder.’

  Hal hesitated, acknowledging her strength of purpose. ‘There could be consequences, as we know too well. Are you willing to accept that?’

  Her amethyst gaze was implacable. There was no going back, not after offering herself to this man so blatantly, and without even the trace of a blush. ‘There could.’ She inclined her head in acceptance. ‘I will face them if it should be so.’

  ‘How can I resist such an offer. You know it. You are my only weakness.’ His smile was a little wry, a little sad and he took a breath. To take her to his bed would make their parting so much more difficult. To know the satin glide of her skin beneath his, her softness moulding to the hard planes of his own body. To feel the intimate heat of her close around him in both possession and submission. It could destroy all his best intentions, unless he exerted his will to the utmost.

  But he owed her that much, after all the grief in their past. And he would fulfil his obligation with every muscle and sinew in his body, with grace and finesse. ‘Very well, lady. I will give you this one night with all the love and tenderness within me. I will leave you with no doubts about my need for you. I will promise that when we are apart you will remember this night with every waking and sleeping thought. You will know what worship and adoration, of a man for a woman, can be.’ He bent to touch her lips with his own in recognition of his promise. ‘I will give you this one night of love.’

  And he would take it for himself.

  So, because he was unable to give her any hope for a future together, Henry gave her the night she asked of him. Regardless of the bitter-sweet pain of separation, which a night of love-making would prolong almost beyond bearing, he could not refuse her. Nor, in all honesty, did he wish it. They would proclaim the glory of their passion and devotion one final time—and exalt in it.

  Wrenching despair, soul-searing desolation, both were kept at bay, forbidden to encroach even though they knew that Hal’s leaving would come to them as assuredly as the lightening sky of dawn. Such emotions would not be allowed to intrude into their room, into their bed, banished by the supreme quality of exquisite care that he lavished on her through the darkest hours. Love in every touch, in every caress, in every heated kiss. A tender wooing to construct an unbreachable barrier between the lovers and the approach of cruel reality.

  Clothing was not permitted to be a hindrance, thus quickly shed. They had completed and overcome a long and hazardous journey through lies, deceit and deception, deliberately placed obstacles. Nothing should now come between the celebration of their mutual desire. Eleanor consented that Henry lift and carry her to the bed where the curtains were drawn back, the covers folded away and the pillows banked in soft invitation. Once there, she opened her arms to take him in, enclosing him to her breast, to imprint the essence of him on her mind and body for ever.

  Slowly, thoroughly, Henry made love to her. There was no hurry, no demands on their time except to give and receive a precious gift. As if their lifetime stretched before them where they might sleep and wake together in joyous intimacy every night and morning for the rest of their lives. Eleanor had asked for a memory. Henry set himself to create one, as bright and as mystical as the beams of the moon that illuminated the room for them in its soft light. No candles were required to add to the glamour. Only silvered shadows, soft glimmering highlights on shoulder and thigh, hard-edged curls of hair and turns of hand, the deep velvet of secret, intimate places.

  She was a man’s dream, a fantasy of enchantment and fascination. Henry could not eat or drink his fill at the banquet offered in her arms. He touched and tasted, all those satin, seductive curves that tempted and beckoned, holding back when her immediate response, slim body arched against him in potent demand, would have driven him too precipitately to immoderate action. He framed her face with his beautiful hands to press gentle kisses on temple, eyes and finally her parted lips as her breathing quickened. Leisurely kisses possessed her, cleverly rousing her nipples to hard desire, tracing the soft hollows at her waist to make her shiver, anointing the tender skin between her thighs, which made her cry out. The taste of her skin, the perfume of her hair were branded into his memory for all time. Gentle but deliberate, he pursued the path that he had set himself, to awaken her senses to delight as he moved his body languorously against and over hers. Until his weight held her in thrall, aware of nothing but her allure as she smiled, a smile that stirred his body and blood as a sorcerer would create and use irresistible powers. Until he drove her to forgetfulness with skilful mouth and experienced fingers so that she shuddered in his arms, the heat becoming too great to withstand.

  Eleanor felt the power ripple through her veins, turning her blood to red-hot gold as she stretched her body over his, hair falling on his chest so that he gasped, muscles tightening. She allowed her breasts to brush against the hard planes, delighting in the immediate response of his erection. As he had pleasured her, so she reciprocated with growing confidence and assurance. Her fragrant breath whispered against his skin. Soft lips, allowed to roam at will, dragged him to the very edge of reason. How amazing, she discovered, that she could reduce this powerful man to such weakness, that his body should quiver with such need as he strained hips and thighs against her in a gesture of dominant possession. How miraculous that she could compromise his proud self-control, as he could rouse her to mindless dependence. She stroked and smoothed, familiarising herself with the firm contours of muscle and sinew, lest in the endless years apart she should forget. As if she ever could forget.

  She would not allow him to forget her.

  No emotion, no passion was permitted to remain unawakened between them as the hours ticked inexorably past.

  At last they came together in mutual demand. She opened to him and he slid gently into her, held deep in her tight velvet softness where he belonged. Slowly filling her and claiming her for all time. Eyes locking in pleasure beyond all words, drowning in the depths of love and a need to give and receive. He moved slowly to draw out the glory of it, until nerve-endings sang, blood raced, breath seared in lungs, pulses hammered with demand for release. But he would not. He kept the rhythm slow, hers matching perfectly, thighs clasping his hips, body arched to take him even deeper.

  ‘Love me, Eleanor. Want me,’ he murmured against her mouth, his lips a burning brand, breath ragged.

  ‘I love you. I want you.’ The stretching of her body beneath him echoed her words. Responding, he thrust deeper yet.

  ‘No one will ever love you as I do.’

  ‘Nor as I love you.’

  Until passion grew too great. He waited until she reached the crest, hands tightening on his arms, nails digging crescents into his skin. Until she cried his name. Then thrust to hurl them both from the mountain peak, from where they fell together into hot darkness.

  Afterwards she lay in his arms, head resting against his shoulder, but did not sleep. Time was too precious to be wasted without sensation, without awareness. Time enough for oblivion when she was alone. So she sensed his breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest against her cheek. Absorbed his warmth and strength that wrapped her around to hold her safe. She would remember the splendour of loving and being loved with such intensity, with such unbearable tenderness, and rejoice through the pain of a future alone.

  Eleanor wept a little, despite her intention to remain strong. For herself. For Hal. For their inevitable loss. For Thomas, whom she had not been able to love as he had deserved, but who had given her s
o much in full knowledge of her predicament. She had indeed been blessed. And Hal had given her a son.

  Hal caught her tears with his mouth as they tracked down her cheeks into her hair, but said nothing, allowing her the luxury of weeping in his arms. Then, as desire built, he moved to take her again. And again.

  Now he whispered words of love. Foolish words and avowals that reduced her to laughter and tears. All the words of love and care that had gone unuttered on the tempestuous and passion-rent night of the Sefton soirée were now given free rein. Whispered mouth against mouth, against silken skin, against scented hair. Every nuance expressed that neither might be left in doubt for all eternity. But no promises were made for the future. No words, no future. And she accepted it with a courage and fortitude beyond his imagining. His love for her was as boundless as the ocean that would soon divide them. As sure as the law that would stand in the way of their union.

  Hers for him was as bright and durable as the stars that glittered in the night sky beyond their window.

  In that one night of love they celebrated their eternal love—but also set each other free for a future alone. To make separate lives. To exist alone. Without the intimate knowledge of the other’s thoughts and desires. Without a familiar touch or caress. The night was both a confirmation of love and a terrible sacrifice.

  ‘I will love you until death, Eleanor.’

  ‘Yes. Until death.’

  With daybreak, they would never see each other again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Eleanor slept late. Exhaustion, mental and physical, had finally laid its irresistible hand on her. Henry had loved her, kissed her, held her, possessed her. Set her ablaze in a night of aching tenderness and overwhelming passion. Sleep had been far from their thoughts. Until they had fallen, deep under its calm surface, replete, at some little time before dawn.

  But now she knew that he was gone.

  Left London more than two days before he needed to catch the sailing. To lessen the agony and anguish of a drawn-out parting, for them both. He would think of that, of course.

  The bed was cold. She ran her hand over the empty space beside her. No colder or emptier than the spaces in her heart. She buried her face in the pillow, breathing deep, to catch the lingering scent of him. How quickly it was gone. How impossibly short the night had been. And now her life stretched before her, impossibly long without him. Only one thought hammered in her mind, beating its message through her blood, through every vein. He loved her, but she must learn to live life without him again.

  It drove her to rise from her bed. There, on the dressing table, were the letters where she had left them the previous night. Hers and his, hidden away by her mother all those months whilst she had craved news of him. She would read them one day. But not now. They were not important. She knew what was in Hal’s mind and did not need words of two years ago to convince her of his love.

  She simply stood in the middle of the room, remembering. A night of such splendour and magnificence. The glory of it still sent shivers over her skin, still tumbled through her veins with the cauterising heat of volcanic lava. She could taste his lips on her own, feel the brush of his hands against her skin, as if he were there with her. Whatever the future would hold, she would never regret this night. He had touched her soul and she knew, beyond doubt, that his heart was hers. It was enough.

  It had to be enough.

  And she had her son. Their son. To cherish and raise to manhood, as she and his father would wish.

  On that thought Eleanor pulled on her robe and made her way to Tom’s nursery. He was awake, gurgling with incomprehensible words when he saw her, pulling himself up by the sides of the crib to bounce on urgent feet. Soon he would walk. Soon he would run through the vast rooms at Burford Hall. And Hal would never see.

  She lifted him, smoothing down his linen smock, crooning to him as he wriggled and pulled on her loosened hair.

  ‘He has gone. But how he loved us,’ she informed the infant in serious tones as if he would understand every word. Tom patted her face, fussing to be set down. ‘He would not take us with him. He thought only of the dangers. I wish he had not been quite so honourable…’

  She would have walked to the window to look down on the street where sparrows twittered in the cherry tree, but stopped when her attention was caught. The small night stand beside the crib. Beside the night candle.

  She smiled then, although the glitter of tears was there if anyone looked closely. He had been here. He had been to say farewell. She closed her hand on the precious items and carried them and the child to the light of the sun streaming through the window.

  Henry’s gold half-hunter, which had entranced Tom as it repeated and chimed the hours and quarters, lay on her palm. And a seal, which she had never seen before, to be worn as a fob on a chain of gold. The body was amber, glowing in the light with yellow and deep ochre, tiny leaves trapped for all time in its depth. A beautiful object, of some history, beyond price to her. Its setting was chased gold, intricate, delicate, holding the resin securely with elegant claws. And carved into its flat surface was the Faringdon crest. Hal’s own seal, left for his son.

  ‘Look, Tom. This is for you.’ She held out the seal to Tom, who immediately grasped the golden chain, transferring the links to his mouth.

  ‘He left this for you. And the watch. But I don’t expect he thought you would eat it!’

  She laughed—and then on a sob, quickly swallowed, pressed her lips to the soft curve of his cheek.

  Eleanor made the decision to return to Burford Hall. As she had told Hal, she had had enough of London and the shallowness of polite society to last her for some weeks, if not years. A lifetime even.

  She must stop thinking about him! And dreaming. Waking to sense the brush of his fingertips against her cheek. The cool pressure of his lips, heating to an intensity of demand that caused her to shudder with longing. Expecting to see his tall figure every time she entered a room, his smile that illuminated all the dark places on her soul. Devastated when she realised anew that he would never be there. She was alone and must accept it.

  The house in Park Lane was hers until she wished to leave. Nick would see to the rent and its eventual termination. She would not go back to Faringdon House yet, even though she believed that the Baxendales had departed for enforced seclusion in Whitchurch. It was all so empty without Hal. Her life was empty…

  She must not think about him!

  So they were packed, her clothes and all the many necessities for the baby, ready to depart on the following day. The ladies of the household gathered in Henry’s morning room at three o’clock for tea and a final parting exchange of news and gossip as Cousin Judith joined them. Mrs Stamford planned to stay on in London for a few days with some distant relatives. Sarah Russell, more relaxed and at ease in her new surroundings, would go with Eleanor. Her guilt had begun to dissipate. She smiled more. Did not feel the need to apologise to Eleanor every day for her brother Edward’s sins. Did not feel the need to watch John with an eagle eye every moment of every day. So she would go to Burford Hall and take up residence there. Eleanor had come to like the quiet, gentle girl. She thought she would be glad of her company in the empty hours and days ahead.

  Eleanor had deliberately made no mention to her mother of the letters that now rested in a jewel case, replacing the one from Thomas that Hal had taken with him. What use? Nothing of the past could be changed and what could Eleanor possibly say that her mother did not know already? The confiscation of the letters had wrought a bitter rift between the lovers, as was intended, but Eleanor had made her peace with Hal, and he with her. No point in raking over cold ashes.

  Mrs Stamford watched her daughter, wondering at her brittle composure, her dry-eyed determination to arrange her future to her own liking with no reference to her mother’s opinion. Here was a young woman, chilly and aloof, with none of the softness of the past. Mrs Stamford eyed her askance when Eleanor kept her silence, but for once she did
not dare broach the matter of the wayward letters. These days the Marchioness of Burford had a steel-edged maturity, a cold decisiveness, and had drawn a line of privacy over which her mama felt it unwise to cross.

  Eleanor had read Hal’s letters. And re-read her own naïve pleas for a word from him, a simple recognition that he had not forgotten her. An explanation for why he had sailed without her. She had wept a little. He had not forgotten her. She pressed his words to her heart. Regretted Hal’s final decision to the bottom of her soul, and then put the letters away. She knew that he would not write again. Nor would she.

  The chatter as the ladies drank tea was light, mostly inconsequential news of their mutual acquaintances. Judith promised to visit Burford Hall in the summer months. Mrs Stamford expressed the opinion that she might take herself to Brighton. Or perhaps to drink the waters in Bath. Sarah expressed her pleasure at the prospect of country life and fresh air. Open spaces for John to run and grow. Eleanor played her part. Yes, she anticipated the slow pace of life at Burford with calm approval. Unaware that her companions were concerned for her overbright eyes and pale cheeks. That she ate little and slept less. Unaware of their urgent conversations about her state of mind and the possible remedy. The only remedy. She would have been horrified if she’d known the depths of their concern, if she had realised that they could read her so well. She had been determined that she would not mope! She would rebuild her life and be perfectly content.

  Of course she would.

  Hal’s departure had been accepted with little comment. He would be missed, of course, but it was no surprise that he had gone. It had always been his intention and his commitment to Faringdon and Bridges could not be overset. Perhaps he had not been expected to leave quite so precipitately, but then Hal was always a man of action and impulse. He had said his farewells to Nicholas and that was that. There was nothing more to discuss. And besides, such a conversation invariably brought a tightness to Eleanor’s lips, an added pallor to her face.